A Tale Of Poetry And Blood
by Camm Shenylle
Summary: Hunchback of Notre Dame, but very AU. In a world where Esmeralda doesn't exist and Clopin's "sister" is a vampire, what happens when the two gypsies begin plotting the fate of a passing philosopher, the Poet Gringoire?
1. Survival and Damnation

  
  
**Disclaimer:** Victor Hugo's _Hunchback of Notre Dame_ or as it is otherwise known _Notre Dame de Paris_ does not belong to me. If it did, I'd be much more successful and writing something other than fan fiction.   
  
**Author's Note:** After seeing all the many interpretations of Gringoire, I fell in love with each one of them. So, obviously, I had to step in and ruin his life. This resulted in a very AU piece of fiction, and what's more, an exploration of another form of writing. It may be horrible, but it was fun.   
  
  


**_Prologue_**

  
_1482_   


The King of the Gypsies calls to her and she steps forth from the shadows to see yet another wanderer standing by the noose. He offers her the choice, as he had each time before.

  


_Oh! what to do? What to do?_ The condemned looks to her for mercy, the King for judgement. _My gift for words is an utter failure!_ At times such as this, her frozen heart is torn.

  


She hears him beg, sentences flowing gently from his mouth. She scowls, "Know this as you hang from the gibbet, sweet philosopher, the Gallow's birds are more merciful than I." She turns away.

  


He cries after her and she pauses, answering him silently, _To take you, to spare you, only to cast you into eternal damnation; oh, wretched fool!_ She yells bitterly to him in thought, crimson eyes imploring, _do not ask . . . do not!_

  


He holds her gaze, understanding her unspoken words. Once more he tries, using but one word of his own. She spins to the King, "Untie him, Clopin!" Then, catching herself, she adds softly, "Leave him in my quarters, bound, of course."

  


It is carried out as she bid. Tentatively, she returns to her chambers to find him there. Without waiting for his thanks, she whispers menacingly, "Speak your meaningless words, monsieur, then mutter from those vile lips the one I care to hear." He says nothing in response and she continues, "Save yourself with knowledge, with cowardice. Look on in fear, you rotten poet!"

  


So saying, she reveals the malice in her eyes. At this he backs away and she sinks to the ground. "Ah, leave me be! My heart's not in the hunt. Take what you will; the cupboards hold an endless supply."

  


He glances fearfully at the treasure she speaks of, but she notices this. "Yes, blood money, that's what it is! Taken as I take them!" She rises and moves toward him, furious.

  


He scrambles past her and again the fight leaves her body. "Oh, run from me, soft soul. Your eyes are too kind, not fit to watch this miserable creature in her pain. Horror upon horror, you can't possibly know. Abandon me, or be destroyed!"

  


She tosses one of the large, coin-filled pouches at him. "Take my ill-gotten goods. Heaven knows I have no use for them. Make your friends the Truands, visit the Cathedrale Notre-Dame, but, by God!, stay with me not a moment more!"

  


Throwing open the door, she cries, "Let me alone to suffer in torment! Go!"

  


Without a backward glance, he flees the modest dwelling. Her eyes follow him down the street and out of sight. "Oh! what have I done?"

  


She steps out onto the darkened road, "My innocent love, return. Return to my guilty arms. Only I hold the key to your flight on Pegasus."

  


Quickly, she moves in his direction, calling out, "Come back, I mean no harm! Oh, pitiful Gringoire, don't fly away and leave me stranded!"

  


She pauses and waits, then, angered, enters her home and throws the candles to the curtains. "Damn your free spirit; I curse you! Have that eternal life of which you so dream! I give it to you, but feel its sorrows!"

  


She exits the building and stares off to the horizon, watching the sun rise as the rooms behind her burn. "Hate me then, I despise you," she whispers to the dawn. "Live on, master Pierre, live on in Godforsaken misery."


	2. Lost Salvation

  
  
**Author's Note:** Just a small warning about the rest of this story, it jumps around a fair bit. But don't worry about trying to keep track, it's not all that important.   
  
  


**_Chapter One_**

  
_1882_   


The crackling fire casts eerie glows across the unaltered face of the one whom he abandoned so long ago on that night. She sits patiently, waiting and still. Finally, he enters, nervously at first, then with increasing courage.

  


She stares into the flames and whispers, "You've come back to me then? These hundreds of years passed."

  


He stands silently in the corner, as impassive as she, looking on in a certain awe at what he cannot place.

  


Her gaze meets his and she smiles unhappily, "I've changed, I know. Not in the way one would think, but to now be more beautiful, more terrifying, more cold, more cruel than ever I was. Time works its miracles.

  


"I suppose, perhaps, that you are still frightened of me, of this soft, sophisticated demeanor that the centuries have tempered."

  


She stands and walks swiftly toward him, softly taking him by the arm and leading him to a cushioned seat. "How do you fare, my gentle poet? Has the world treated you well? Does your hatred for me still blaze beneath your breast?"

  


He looks away and she turns back to her chair. "To think you could have died that night and on any gone by!" she says to herself.

  


He starts at this but allows her to continue on, "Why do you live still, troubadour? What gives you reason to breathe? That is, if you do breathe."

  


Reproachfully, she shakes her head at him. "There is not one who has ever existed in such a state. Not a vampire, not a witch, not a demon . . . what classification would you use?"

  


Not letting him answer, she hurriedly puts in, "You were a scholar once, monsieur Pierre. Do you still study, study those who come and go as you do not? Does your changelessness hurt you, as you do not know from whence it came?"

  


She leans forward and whispers secretively, "My diligent child, there are so many others, so many like me, who could help you in your quest. Would you take their names, would you if you knew they would weep at the sight of you?"

  


She quickly rises from her seat and moves towards the burning fire, back to him. "Ah, sweet dear! How I cried the night I cursed you!"

  


He also comes to the mantle, grasping her by the shoulder. She faces him. "And look now! You stand as a very Regal Truand. All that I never was," she admits, then quietly adds, "Yes, this because I killed to survive.

  


"But you, who did you kill?" she says with increasing vigour. "Only me, without saying a single word. Oh, leave! I cannot take this horrid sadness."

  


She collapses onto the floor, and looks up at him standing above her. "My dreams, they are in you. Now go!" she cries. "My Prince of Salvation, go!"

  


He moves towards the exit, this time not out of fear, but respect. She mutters sadly, "Hold me in your thoughts but let me be, once more, the creature of solitude."

  


As he leaves, as she fights to remain conscious, she sends out one final message, _Farewell, my love._


	3. Temptation's Illusions

  
  
**Author's Note:** It has recently come to my attention that the vampire character in this and my other small chapter story, "Blood Money", are both gypsies. Be assured, this fanfic was actually written before my _Harry Potter_ one and the character of Melissa was never intended to be a gypsy. Unfortunately, she became one when I discovered I needed a reason for Draco to put a little trust in her. My apologies for that and this excruciatingly pointless Author's Note . . . As you were.   
  
  


**_Chapter Two_**

  
_1582_   


Silently, she stares at the unmoving, but familiar body curled on the bed. _It is true, then?_ she wonders in awe. Then she moves towards him stealthily, whispering, "These hundred years passed and you should lie not in a bed as you are but in a coffin."

  


He wakes suddenly out of his dreams to see her standing over him. Her eyes burn into his own, but she speaks to herself, "Immortality, without the Blood."

  


She spins violently, so as not to look at him. "Ah! but at what cost to me? An infatuation, every moment in endless time I have thought of you."

  


Turning around, she faces him, as he sits on the bed, worried. "On the blackest nights," she confides, "your memory lit my soul. From the instant I saw you, little scholar, my heart has longed for you touch."

  


It seems he wishes to ask her something, but she plunges on, "To have run when you did, to have secured forever in my fevered mind that image of fright. Oh! let me near you!" she cries, walking to his bed. "Permit me just one drop, just a taste to quit my hunger."

  


As she nears him, he pulls away, increasing the space between them. She turns viciously, "The thirst you cannot know, poet! Fill me with your unaltered life-force. Sweet soul, unstained with death!"

  


He backs from her as she reaches for him, "These times will destroy you, love! Take my hand and know your strength!"

  


She watches him, piteously, as he grasps the door handle. "There are others, do you feel them?" she asks softly. He quickly returns his attentions to her, interested. "Yes, they watch us throughout the nights.

  


"If they harmed you, I would die!" she whispers.

  


Taking his hand, she leads him to the window. "Come, master Gringoire, come with me to fly away! I told you of Pegasus's wings, let us use them! Together, to the highest reaches of eternity we will go! You and I, maker and child. No need to be longer trapped in between, wild spirit! No need to wonder if there is more!"

  


She pleads, heartbroken, "Come, I beg you, come!"

  


He stares into her eyes for a moment, then begins to walk determinedly towards the door. She calls softly after him, despairing, "Darling troubadour, don't leave! Don't abandon me!"

  


But to no avail. He, without glancing back to her, quits his own room, leaving her standing there alone.

  


She narrows her eyes and mutters, "Oh! that the fates are cruel. I'll have thee, Gringoire!"

  


Staring out the window, she sees him cross the street below her. "I must find my heart that you carry away. Ah, _petit marchand d'illusion_, flee, for I know not what I do."

  


With this said, she turns and extinguishes the candles in the room, emerging herself in complete blackness and sorrow.


	4. The Intervention Of Fate

  
  


**_Chapter Three_**

  
_1472_   


_Stunning . . . a child still, and yet . . . something more,_ she thinks to herself as she watches the young man of sixteen walk along the cobblestone road. Then turning to him beside her, she asks, faking bitterness, "Why have you brought me here, my despicable King?"

  


He smirks and continues gazing at their oblivious subject. She grins as well, "Ah, yes! This philosopher, or so he calls himself, is for me. What a timeless beauty!"

  


Unable to contain herself any longer, she drives straight to the point, "And to him you wish me to give the Blood? Why not you, my reckless liege?"

  


After receiving a vague negative answer, she questions, "But why not simply kill him?" Then pauses before adding, "Though, you are correct. I would never allow it. You plan to give me this obsession to keep me from trouble perchance?"

  


Her eyes stray to the victim, who unknowingly walks closer to their hiding place in the shadows. She now notices that he is not alone. "That man in black with our poet, who might he be?" She frowns, "A priest, by the look of his dress."

  


Laughing, she spins to the one standing next to her. "Shame, Trouillefou! The boy will believe me a demon!" He, in turn, also laughs at this.

  


"I had better begin my studies," she mutters, "or for the first time I shall be outwitted by a mortal. From here in these shadows I see that his speech is one that can rarely be rivalled."

  


The student and teacher pass them by. She waits a moment then cries, "Ten years, Clopin! It will be torture to wait!"

  


He shakes his head in amusement and she implores him, "Tell me, how close may I get? May I haunt his dreams? Hang over his shoulder? Dear King of Egypt, why do you wish to make me a scholar?!"

  


Then, after not receiving a reply, she whispers to herself, "And I must, I know."

  


She laughs again and swirls about him. "Have your way, sweet brother, until your dancing gypsy has hers. Go on!" she says gaily to him. "Go on back to your Truands and let me dwell on the troubadour for the remainder of the evening."

  


He bows mockingly to her and heads off down the street. She calls after him, "Be gone with you, my friend!" and watches him leave.

  


Then turning back to face the direction in which her prey had headed, she stalks along silently after the figures. With an evil glint in her eye, she whispers to the wind and to him, "Do you know the word _Anarkia_, love? No? Learn it, young one, for it just played a hand in the course of your life."

  


She leaps onto the top of a passing carriage and lets them fade away behind her. Then, pretending to doff an invisible hat, she shouts out, "'Til then, master Gringoire!"


	5. Finale

  
  


**_Chapter Four_**

  
_2082_   


Across from each other they sit, separated by only a small oak table. At hand are two old-fashioned glass goblets, one holding the inescapable red elixir and the other filled with nothing but clear water. She sighs, "I see in your eyes the confusion as to why I have brought you here."

  


He, in reply, looks away, out the window to the overpopulated London street below. She gently prods him, "Are you still stunned at how much I can change between our meetings? I must confess your own beauty never ceases to amaze me." She pauses, then adds, "And others, so it seems."

  


He quickly returns his gaze to her, questions flashing across his mind. She continues on, "I have watched over you every night for the past two hundred years, my love. All those times you felt a conflict in the air, that was I, defending your right to freedom from those who would take it."

  


She looks sorrowfully at him. "But now, you have the strength to fight them alone. I know this and yet I worry."

  


Glancing pointedly at his untouched drink, she stands and walks around the table, then sits on its edge, close to him. "I need to apologize, master Pierre. You've suffered at my hand because I had not the courage to release you. Might you find in your tender heart the reason to forgive me, my beloved troubadour?" He looks at her, perplexed.

  


"Ah! to have abandoned the ancient innocence for that of the modern world as you have done! You connect so well to these times."

  


_And by that token,_ she tells herself, _he shall survive._

  


She returns back to her seat and collapses into it. "My will to live fails me, poet. I can no longer exist in this state, without that vital hope."

  


Frightfully aware of what she means, he stands up and comes to her side. She smiles bitter-sweetly and unclasps the necklace with an aquamarine pendant around her neck. "Take this, faithful child, and leave me alone one final time."

  


He does as she asks and pockets the necklace. She touches his cheek and whispers, "There was so much more I wished to tell you, but alas!, I cannot bring myself to say it. A fond adieu, my dear!"

  


She rises from her chair and takes his hands in hers. "Think not of me in the years hereafter but of all you can yet give. Leave, my eternal friend, leave me."

  


She turns away from him and crosses to the door of the room. She quickly opens it and, taking one glance back, closes it behind her. She leans against it, fingers splayed on the wood and mutters, "At last! Forever ends and I can lay down my life for you as I should have done those many years ago."

  


Moments later, he throws open the door to find an empty hall save for a single black rose. He picks it up then looks around in anguish.

  


"Sheridan!"


	6. Silent Moments In Time

  
  


**_Chapter Five_**

  
_1632_   


She hovers in the shadows with the hope that they will shield her from the one she watches. He speaks softly in a far corner of the tavern with a dazzling female. Debating whether to approach him or simply leave, she whispers, "How devilish you look, talking so coyly with that lovely woman."

  


Cupping her hands around her untouched glass of liqueur, she continues, "Does she yet know her fate, my guilty angel? Will you show her all that time has made you in one moment of splendid glory?"

  


_But what am I saying?_ She wonders without speaking. _She's quite safe, of course, as you are not one of us, the undead. However that was managed quite baffles me._

  


She looks up quickly to find his eyes on her. _Do you hear me, dear poet? Do my unspoken words fall upon an open mind?_

  


He begins to stand up and she silently orders him, _Do not search for me._

  


Without realizing what he may have meant to do, he returns to the conversation with the beautiful young stranger. Her silver laugh rings out across the room.

  


She closes her eyes and wills herself to not leave her seat. _Oh! would that it were possible for me to take you by the hand and lead you back to me!_

  


Opening her eyes, they swiftly return to him, blazing. _And you, caught unaware by this sudden advance, would submit to my touch._ She starts at her own fevered words.

  


_No, not my touch._

  


She sighs and admits to herself, _It would be foolish to delude myself into thinking all might be as simple as that. Physical delights are beyond me now, as you well know. My desire for you is altogether different._

  


Unable to contain herself any longer, she slowly stands up and begins crossing the floor towards him. _Have you any idea what seeing you does to me?_

  


As he glances up, she slips just outside his gaze and sinks into a nearby chair. He frowns as one trying to recall a fading dream, then reaches out and takes a hesitant drink from the glass before him.

  


_But, by the God I am sure I have forsaken, I swear I will never so completely damn you. I wish for you only to live this eternity without the pain I bear._

  


She rises and walks in a half circle around to the back of his seat, concealing herself in the welcoming darkness all the time. She extends her hand, yet refrains from touching him. _But all these words that you truly need to hear so that you may understand will never reach you. Everything is such a mystery, is it not, my love?_

  


_And I alone could change that for you, yet I never will. I apologize, my wandering troubadour, I truly do._

  


Stepping back further into the blackness of the tavern she whispers, too softly for anyone but her to hear, "Ah, master Pierre, if you only knew that I was too late to save you the moment I laid eyes on you! If you only knew . . . "

  


A second later, she has disappeared into the night.


	7. The Gift

  
  


**_Chapter Six_**

  
_1732_   


"My philosophical friend, would you be horribly insulted if I informed you that you have completely lost your mind?" she says laughingly. "That is the only reason I can find that might explain your request."

  


He sits with her in a lavishly decorated study, separated by a sturdy oak desk. His expression fades quickly from a glimmer of hope to a hardening glare.

  


"I mean, I realize this is the Age of Enlightenment, but this is taking it a step too far!" she scoffs. "Give you the Blood, indeed!"

  


She catches his eye, smiles weakly, and adds, "I see this wasn't the answer you were expecting. But I believe you do not truly know for what you ask me."

  


Cautiously, she leans towards him and whispers, "Do you understand how wretchedly terrible this cursed existence is? To kill every night to continue living, and with each damn myself even further into Hell."

  


Their eyes lock and she thinks silently to him, _You do not want this._

  


She stands and walks to a large bay window overlooking a dark, sprawling lawn. "Go back to your love of women so that you will not develop a love of death."

  


Then, after a moment's pause, she faces him once more. "But you have turned from that path, have you not, poet? You've grown cold, a minstrel of sorrow."

  


He rises and comes to her, taking her frozen hands. "It was that loneliness which brought you here tonight." She steps closer to him and continues on, "Don't you see? It would only increase your pain, add to the misery inside.

  


"There is nothing I can tell you that might ease your frustration at my refusal."

  


He pulls away and returns to his chair, but does not sit. She says softly, "Know only that as much as you might curse my very soul for demanding you leave now, it would be a thousand fold more if I were to permit you to stay and make the transformation."

  


She moves to comfort him as he bows his head and braces himself against the desk, yet does not make it very far. She stops and whispers, "Please . . . go."

  


He looks up for a second, turns to met her gaze, then swiftly disappears from view. She frowns and disbelievingly shakes her head. She begins to quit the room when a blue glint catches her eye.

  


There, lying on the solid oak desk, is a stunning silver necklace with a aquamarine pendant. She gently picks it up and notices a note underneath it. In beautiful Parisian script, it says:

  


_I know who you are._


	8. Parting Words

  
  


**_Epilogue_**

  
_1482_   


"You let him go."

  


"I had to, Clopin. I couldn't bring myself to . . . "

  


"What will you do now?"

  


"I suspect I shall put myself to rest; I cannot stay with you Truands and there is nowhere else for me."

  


"Sheridan, you are still welcome to live among us."

  


"I can't. I simply can't. Would you leave me now?"

  


"Of course, if you insist."

  


"And Clopin?"

  


"Yes?"

  


"Don't go searching him out."

  
  
**Author's Note:** Well, that's all there is. Now, off to obsess over another fandom. 


End file.
